They have sleeping bags and mounds of junk piled up behind them. Lubar stops, and flips up his goggles. He’s sand-dirt brown all over except for his eyes and these’re rimmed white from his goggles, pale blue-gray bird eyes staring out and smiling, glistening at me.
Sweik stops behind him, unhooks his helmet and turns off his motor. Sandy is waving crazily, and, just as I figured, smiling. She pushes her hand on Sweik’s shoulder to swing her leg up and over the pile stacked behind her. It’s hard to believe they ever got through those mountains with all that weight. She jumps down, brushes her pants.
“Well, here’s the old man himself. I bet he never thought we’d make it.”
She vaults the low wall, comes over, plants a nice open, thin-lipped, cool kiss on my mouth. The whole terrace is watching. This is a place to watch from and here’s something worth watching.
I’m really glad to see they’re not spread over a mountain pass somewhere, sanded down to bloody stumps and human hamburger. Lubar’s got his bike pulled up on its stand and helps Dale off. She stumbles when she tries to walk. I don’t know if it’s because her legs are asleep or she’s still that scared.
I’m also not so sure they can actually park the bikes right here; the bus pulls in from Málaga almost every half hour and the bikes are blocking the bus stop totally. Some guardia civil with a Thompson machine gun will come over and get them to move soon enough.
I stand and shake hands with Lubar, then Sweik. We pound each other on the back, man-style, but nothing like the crazy dance Sture and I did. Dale gives me a hug and sisterly kiss. She’s cold and her whole body’s shaking, even her hands. When I hold them, they seem to give off vibrations like touching a low-voltage wire, something around six or twelve volts and low ampere; it’s a physical hum.
We sit in the sun. Lubar’s proud as a peacock; it’s as if he’s hauled them over the whole trip himself. He spreads his legs and scrunches down in the chair. I order Spanish cognac and tapas around. They all look as if some kind of pick-me-up might help. Sweik has his jacket open, his shirt top button’s open and he’s tilting his face up to the sun.
“Do you know anybody wants to buy a perfectly wonderful 1950 Ariel? I love that machine but I’ll never get it all the way back over those hills to Paris again.”
Lubar straightens. The drinks and tapas arrive. He takes a sip of the cognac.
“Come on, Sweik; it wasn’t that bad. OK, so you swung out on that curve between Burgos and Madrid trying to avoid a pothole, but that could’ve happened anywhere. We have worse holes than that on the Connecticut Thruway back home.”
“Let me tell you something, Lubar: this last stretch from Cordova, over those mountains down to Málaga, was more than I can ever manage again. You’ve got a low center of gravity on that monster of yours, but each of those curves was a life-and-death affair for us. I’m pooped, and my back hurts. I’d be better off walking home.”
Sandy and Dale are sitting next to each other. Sandy puts her arm over the back of Dale’s chair, looks over at Sweik.
“Honest, man, I could ride like that the rest of my life; but I’m sure as hell glad I didn’t know you were scared. Matt, I thought you were in full control the whole way.”
Sweik smiles.
“About twice there, Sandy, I was ready to give you the choice of getting off and hitchhiking or else letting me show you how to drive the damned bike and I’d hitch. Or maybe I’d move into one of those little towns with the orange trees and settle for life. God, I was tired and scared. That is one miserable combination.”
I know Sweik. He’s exaggerating some but he’s talking truth. I’m glad I wasn’t with them; the whole phony Eurail thing was bad but it wasn’t life and death.
We order another round of drinks. The plan is, they’re going to spend a few days lolling around on the beaches. They’re even hoping to find someplace down there to sleep. After that, Lubar wants to explore the foothills just in from the coast. Sweik has entirely other things in mind.
“Listen, Lubar, I’m not going anywhere. I just want to sack out in this sun. I’ve had enough bike riding for at least a year; my rear end’s so sore it feels as if I’m sitting on one giant festering boil.”
He shifts back and forth from one haunch to the other in the chair. I tell them about some caves I know cut under a promontory sticking out into the sea between Torremolinos and Carregheula. In the old days, there used to be a wonderful simple old-fashioned hotel built on top called the Santa Clara. Now the point’s been developed with fancy motels and condominiums. Still, some of those old caves might be left, and it’s right next to the best, most protected beach around.
I show them how to get the motorcycles as near to the beach as possible. We make arrangements at a small hotel down there in the bajandillo, where the original village was, to keep the bikes behind the hotel, against a stone hill, almost a cliff. There are still some simple fishermen living here but mostly it’s taken up with bars, fancy pensions or small hotels.
We slog across the beach and, sure enough, even though the beach is cleaner than I remember, more tended, cared for—with even some beach umbrellas and beach chairs to rent—those old caves are still there. They smell damp, with an aroma of piss and shit, but not too bad. Everybody seems happy with the spot but we can’t leave the bags and things here; they’ll get stolen for sure; also the local guardia civil would be tipped off.
We go back up to the hotel where we’re keeping the bikes. It’s a place called Casa Suezia. I try negotiating for a place to store the bags and stuff.
This is a bit too much for the hotel man, but he finally agrees to let us store in a small room he’ll rent me for only ten dollars a night. I’m eager to get out from under the feet of Sture and Anna, I’m beginning to get a slight whiff of three-day-old fish, so I say I’ll take it. I’m not about to sleep on the beach, but after the mob’s come all the way down, I want to spend some time with them.
Everybody agrees to pitch in a buck a night, so it’s only costing me six, a good deal for everybody. Then too, they’ll have a place to come for a wash-up, or shit, or whatever, and to change.
Sweik suggests we head back to the beach. The Casa Suezia is built as little cabañas piled helter-skelter, one on top of the other, at all angles, with courtyards where you wouldn’t expect them. There’s a small deck on top of our room where I can see miles up and down the coast.
Dale and Sandy change first; then we do. We descend some steps to a small street running along the beach. I’m wearing my bathing suit as underwear, because I was heading for the beach anyway, even if they didn’t come. I have a towel, too. Sandy and Dale carry along their sleeping bags to open up on the sand. Sandy’s wearing a red bikini and has a lovely body. It’s nice seeing an American girl without wobble ass and cottage-cheese legs. She’s been living away from TV and cheap ice cream long enough, I guess. She’s satin smooth, practically hairless, no sign of shaving and already the beginning of a good tan from somewhere. She’s probably been sunbathing during the trip down. Whatever it is, she’s a wonderful sight; I’d only seen her in jeans before. My old-fashioned dirty old mind would love seeing her in a skirt with stockings and medium-high heels, all the trimmings.
We decide on a place close to the water, just over the tidal hump. There are very few people at the beach, though it’s definitely warming up to a sunbathing day. The little breeze has either died down or is blocked by the projecting promontory. Sandy spreads her sleeping bag, opened out, and invites me to share it with her. I’m feeling very saggy-fleshed; I look at my wrinkling flab in contrast to these young people; takes getting used to.
Dale has her bag opened and the other three settle on it. I’m being treated to some kind of special “daddyo” treatment, maybe because I put out for the room. It’s uncomfortable, but then that’s where I am in life, uncomfortable. None of these young people, except maybe Lubar, can be even half my age; I’m older than most of their parents. It’s hard to believe sometimes; how did it
happen? I stretch out, close my eyes, feel the sun and pretend I’m only forty.
It’s revitalizing; hot sun is beating on my eyelids, the heat sinks into me. I hear, feel, Sandy turn over. She puts her arm across my chest. I’m surprised, pleased, but it’s within the range of “daddyoness.” God, I could probably be her grandfather or great-uncle; she can’t be much more than twenty. I stretch out, let myself absorb the perfume of her, her body, her hair. I think too goddamned much.
Then she starts working one cool little finger round one of my nipples, gently pushing aside the hair and baring it, lightly turning round and round, bringing it up, making it hard. I feel a tingling, almost electric sensation behind my ear on that side. Wow, this is more than playing up to daddyo; she’s playing with me; playing with the old Scumbler bod; Holy Moses, save me! What could be bringing this on? I snatch a quick look to see if the others are watching. They’re not noticing.
I turn my head and look at Sandy; she has her eyes open, staring into me; she smiles a pseudo-Greek archaic smile, a slight momentary turning up of her lips. She winks slowly, then closes both eyes, making me feel as if I’ve gone blind. What the hell’s going on? Is she just practicing nipple diddling to help her get Dale back?
She shifts her finger to the other nipple, softly pushing away the hair again, starting the slow turning of her finger, her nail-bitten finger around the small inadequate volcano tip of my old brown nipple.
BANKED FIRES, INTEREST FREE,
THE TIGHT HEDGE OF BANKRUPTCY.
Watch out, Scum! You get into something like this and it can blow up your whole life. You can’t move in and out of feelings the way young people can.
I don’t think I ever could. And, in the end, I’m the one who’s going to get hurt, along with a whole clutch of fine people I love.
If I lose this nest, that’s the end of me. The first time almost did me in; I got so I didn’t care about anything: life, painting, loving; none of it made sense.
BEYOND WORDS, A GULF
OF EMPTINESS UNBRIDLED.
Poor Jane just couldn’t handle having a draft-dodging jailbird for a husband. And I could never make her understand my feelings either. I believed, and still believe, that in time of danger a father should be home protecting his children, not off killing strangers, maybe even fathers to other children.
So they put me in jail. I found myself in jail with a passel of guys who wanted to kill people, some of them already had. Some of them definitely wanted to kill me, the Jap and Nazi lover. I still don’t know how I got through those first six months. Just going to the cafeteria and eating was a very dangerous business.
So Jane got her divorce, our house and total custody of our kids without any question. I wasn’t even allowed to write, let alone visit when I got out. It’s then I found out fathers aren’t real parents; society only allows them to pretend; that is, if they do as they are told.
WITHOUT A SENSE OF PLACE, WE CAN’T
FACE CHANGE: TIME, LIFE, DEATH, BIRTH.
Lubar goes up into town to buy beer and sandwiches. He’s the only one of us not in a bathing suit. He’s stripped to Levi’s and they’re rolled up over his knees. Even with all the biking, he still isn’t tan at all, only pink and peeling. For someone like him, the Sture and Anna theory is probably right: he should stay out of the sun.
When he comes back, he says his asthma’s acting up, so I show him how to do a Yoga shoulder stand; it seems to help. The rest of the day, whenever he starts sneezing or coughing, he’s up on his shoulders in the sand.
After we eat, I stretch out again. I think Sweik actually goes to sleep; at least he’s lightly snoring. That trip on his bike must have been hell. Sandy cuddles up next to me. I don’t know how to handle this; I’m excited but I’m scared; I’m also not sure if she’s making fun of me to give the others a laugh.
She reaches down, takes my hand, pulls it under her and inside the top of her bikini. I feel her hard little nipple with my pinkie. She’s on her stomach and lifts slightly on her elbows so I have rubbing room.
Hell, this is the Scumbler and we’re in Spain! I look around; nobody’s noticing but I’m getting hot and sweaty over nothing. I struggle myself up and pull Sandy with me. We walk down to the water and she keeps hold of my hand. It’s glaring hot now, almost’s hot as summer, and biting clear.
The water pushes loose stones around. We walk in carefully; the water’s cold but not impossible. I take a flop into the shallows and Sandy comes in behind me. After the first shock, it’s wonderful.
I strike out with my modified Australian crawl; I’m not much of a swimmer. Sandy’s in and out of the water like a dolphin, the water making her shine as if she’s been varnished. She doesn’t swim much on top but is constantly ducking under, twisting, turning, rolling, almost like dancing. The water’s so clear I can easily see my shadow on the bottom and it must be twenty feet deep already. Sandy’s hair’s cut short and she has a small head, small features, a tight, light body. I roll over on my back, back-paddle and enjoy watching her.
She swims toward me, little bubbles coming out of her mouth, just a foot underwater. She swims right on top of me, pushes my head under and grasps my head by both ears, then plants, digs, a kiss in my mouth underwater!
It’s a very salty affair; I come up coughing, gasping for air. We tread water, face to face; she’s laughing, taking water in her mouth and spouting onto me. Sandy’s a dolphin all right, somehow got caught up on land. Gradually I recover; she’s swimming around me as I turn to keep her in view; I don’t want to be ducked again.
She goes underwater, swims toward me; then, Mother of God, she reaches her hand inside my bathing suit. She finds it, not that hard to find; hard, even in this coldish water, but easy to find if you look in the right place. I keep treading water, trying not to drown.
She holds on, pulling me along behind and beside her. She’s towing me, like a tug, laughing all the time, turning and flipping hair, water out of her eyes, spouting at me. I’m beginning to think she’ll pull me out by the roots; my roots are kind of loose as it is.
When, finally, she lets go, I tuck the rubbery old hose carefully back in my trunks and spout once or twice at her. She begins swimming away. We’re about thirty yards out from shore. I switch to my usual dependable but slow sidestroke and swim along behind her. I didn’t know hands could shake uncontrollably in the water.
I’m definitely not fish, not even reptile. But Sandy’s doing everything: crawl, backstroke, breaststroke, underwater, overwater, butterfly; she keeps waiting up for me. But I’m never going to catch her, I’m totally pooped. I start swimming toward the beach before I sink. Sandy turns in and races, a quick neat crawl, ahead of me.
She stands at the edge of the water with hands on hips. I float to her, belly down like a piece of flotsam or jetsam, more flotsam. I crawl on my hands and knees, potbelly sagging, blubber, a beached whale. We get to laughing and giggling so I can hardly stand up. Sandy gives me a hand, then practically hauls me up the beach.
It takes ten minutes to get my wind back, and she’s not even breathing hard; holy death, the worst disease known to man is time; absolutely terminal; but then, without it, there doesn’t seem to be anything else. And there’s not much of it left for me, not much chance to play with a lovely young creature like Sandy; I should make the most of it but I won’t.
DRIFTING SEEDS, LIKE DANDELION FEATHERS:
MEN FLOAT, SLIP, AIMLESSLY TO EARTH.
The next day, while everybody goes into Málaga to buy bullfight tickets, I walk back up into the foothills to Sture and Anna’s house. I tell them my friends have arrived from Paris after all, and we’re staying at the Casa Suezia. Anna throws back her head and laughs.
“Moving from one Swedish house to the other, huh? Have you got a pretty young Swedish girl down there to keep you warm nights? What’s the matter, tired of us old folks?”
I’m not one of the world’s best blushers, but I blush. I can feel it spreading out from behind m
y eyes. They both laugh. I tell how I’ve taken a room and the others are storing their stuff in it, sleeping inside the caves down by the beach. Sture’s shocked.
“You mean in those stinking shit holes down there? God, I wouldn’t even take a piss on one of those places, let alone sleep.”
Sture’s staring in my eyes, amazement clouding his face. I smile.
“Sture, let me tell you; that air smells good after the car pollution of Paris. But don’t worry, I’m not sleeping there myself. I’m too old for that.”
“No, he’s sleeping in a soft Swedish bed with a nice young lady from Malmö or Stockholm, aren’t you now?”
“That’d be nice, Anna, but I’m too afraid. And, besides, Kate would kill me.”
LAST LAMENTS TO A TORMENT OF DESIRE.
YESTERDAY’S FIRES STILL ASH WARM.
I pack my things and promise I’ll stop back before I leave. I’ve interrupted their work; Anna has on her smock and Sture was typing when I walked in. They’re so incredibly kind and, at the same time, involved with their work, interesting, it’s an almost impossible combination.
I carry my light bag down to our hotel. The gang won’t be back yet but the sun is high. I put on my bathing suit, get my towel and then head for the beach. It’s hard to believe it’s still dark and gray in Paris, that the leaves aren’t even showing green on the trees. I walk along the bajandillo and listen to a woman singing flamenco out one window and Frank Sinatra singing “Chicago” through a radio out another.
I find a spot, spread my towel and flop out on it. I must drop right off to sleep, because the next thing I know, I feel something on the bottom of my feet; it’s Sandy tickling me. The rest are settling in and are dressed for the beach, except Lubar. I’d left the key under the doormat at our hotel room. Sweik is walking back up from the water; his hands and feet are wet.